 | Caesar In Aegypt |  |
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ACT I.
Nulla fides unquam miseros elegit amicos. Luc. lib. 8.
PHOTINUS, ACHILLAS.Photinus.
Our fertile Ægypt, now, no more shall groan,
Beneath the Ravage of intestine War;
Nor, from the Contests of divided Sway,
Rebellion have th'Excuse of Anarchy.
Our plenteous Nile, now flows for Ptolomey!
While Cleopatra, by his Arms reduc'd,
Perceives her Empire bounded, by this Palace;
There, like a Criminal of State, confin'd,
She stoops for Favours, where she once bestow'd them.
Achil.
And yet so equal, so unchang'd her Spirit,
She seems not to desire, or not t'have lost
A Throne: The same majestick gracious Smile
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Or seeming not to know them.
Pho.
All dissembled!
Train'd up in Courts, she knows to mask her Malice;
But were she loose again to Power, this Head,
That honestly projected her Confinement,
Wou'd be the earliest Victim of her Vengeance.
Achil.
'Tis true, my Lord; and that one Point consider'd,
Why is her Verge of Liberty so large?
Why is she suffer'd still to train along
This lofty Palace, with her Crouds attending?
To revel in the bow'ry Shades, to range
The sportive Forest, and command its Pleasures?
To spread her silken Toils beneath the Stream?
With tow'ring Falcons to distress the Dove?
Or like Diana, with her Wood-nymphs grac'd,
To mount the breathing Hills, and sweep the Vale,
Chacing with cheerful Horn, the Stag, the Boar?
Pho.
Thou know'st, Achillas, she's the People's Idol;
Over whose Hearts, her Eyes usurp an Empire!
Conscious of Beauty, she delights to please,
And when in publick View she moves,
Her radiant Charms attract their Adoration!
Then from her Speech, such melting Musick flows,
Nor more her Words, than tuneful Voice perswade.
Therefore too close Restraint were dangerous:
This Shew of Freedom will amuse the Commons,
Who pierce not to th'Abridgment of her Sway;
But were they utterly refus'd her Sight,
Or but her lovely Person hardly treated;
The Force of Ægypt wou'd not curb their Rage,
Nor Ptolomey were safe upon his Throne.
Achil.
'Tis not the murm'ring Multitude I fear,
But powerful Rome's Resentment wakes my Thought;
How may the jealous Senate bear this Change?
Whose awful Voices have decreed, that both
Sister and Brother, as the late King's Will
Bequeath'd, should equal hold the Reins of Empire?
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Who stands alike the Guardian of them both.
Pho.
Pompey and Rome have weightier Cares at Home.
The Storm of civil War, now rais'd by Cæsar,
Withdraws their Insolence from foreign Realms,
To waste their Valour on their proper Subjects!
Their distant Care of us, is but their Pride,
And Wantonness of Power; intestine Jars
May humble them to Justice, and reduce
Their Empire to its old Italian Bounds.
Or say, that on Pharsalia's dreadful Plain,
(Where now these rival Lions hourly watch
Each other as their Prey) Conquest shou'd give
The Roman World to Pompey, or to Cæsar;
'Twill then be Time enough, when we are sure
Whose Nod we must obey, to change our Measures.
Achil.
Behold the King! and in his youthful Eye
Some Joy unusual sparkles into Triumph.
Enter Ptolomey with an open Letter. Septimius, Achoreus following.
Ptol.
O Photinus! Osiris now has heard
Our Vows! at length this Mistress of the Earth,
Imperious Rome, has lost her Liberty!
This haughty Dame that gave her Laws to Monarchs,
Whose private Citizens durst proudly vaunt
Their Scorn of Crowns, and boast of scepter'd Vassals;
This wanton Rome, impregnated with Power,
By civil Discord, teems her own Destruction:
Pharsalia's Field has given the World to Cæsar;
And Pompey is a Fugitive in Ægypt.
All his late Triumphs, Lawrels, and Renown,
Are now the Spoils, and grace the Brows of Cæsar.
Cæsar, who warm with Injuries, and Conquest,
Will well avenge the Cause of slighted Kings,
And bend the Neck of Rome to one victorious Lord.
Pho.
When our Oppressors feel the Fetters they impos'd,
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Ptol.
We who are doom'd to wear precarious Crowns,
With less Regret, shall pay our Homage to
A King, than an inferiour proud Republick!
Pho.
But you were speaking, Sir, of Pompey's Flight,
And, as I think, of his Arrival here?
Ptol.
The Remnant of his Fleet, three shatter'd Barks,
Now anchor in our Port; where with his fair,
His sad Cornelia, and some few Dependents,
Who share the hopeless Fortunes of Pharsalia,
He waits upon our Will; having first sent
On Shore a Friend, with this Address to ask
Protection, and if possible, our Aid to check
The Course of Cæsar, and inforce the War.
There, more at large you'll read, how unsecure
[Gives them the Letter.
Is all the tow'ring Strength of human Glory.
Acho.
He tells us here, that Parthia's warlike King
(Whose Conquest over Crassus is so fam'd,)
Had offer'd to receive him; but himself
Assur'd his Fortunes more Relief in Egypt,
Where his late Service to your royal Father,
He knows, will be remember'd in his Welcome.
Ptol.
'Tis true, when bold Rebellion press'd my Father,
Pompey procur'd the Senate's timely Aid,
Which crush'd the Tumult, and confirm'd his Throne;
And Benefits conferr'd on Dignity distrest,
Entail their Obligation on its Heirs.
But Pompey, in that utmost Exigence,
Tho' generous, was not more a Friend than Cæsar;
Whose thousand Talents from his private Store,
Advanc'd, gave Life, and Sinews to our Cause!
Thus stands my doubtful Gratitude divided:
Pompey's Misfortunes plead for our Relief;
But Cæsar's Greatness warns us to abjure him:
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And to desert a Friend's Distress—ignoble.
Hard-fated Choice! must I, to save my Crown,
Yield up this hunted Pompey's Head to Cæsar?
Or (saving Pompey) make my Crown his Prey?
What then can guard me, but your riper Wisdom?
Your Counsel, Lords, is now my last Resource,
To shield your Prince from Ruin, or Dishonour.
Acho.
To guard your Crown, Sir, is our eldest Duty:
But what are Crowns that are not worn with Honour?
We grant, the Obligations of your State
To Pompey, and to Cæsar's Friendship, equal;
Yet, as one only begs immediate Payment,
Pompey's Distress seems here to turn the Scale,
And weighs up conscious Honour to relieve him.
Cæsar makes no Demand upon your Crown;
His prosperous Arms not ask, but give Support:
At worst, his thousand Talents might be paid;
Then are you unconfin'd, in Gratitude;
Then Sir, what's due to Pompey, bears no Question.
If 'tis objected, Cæsar may resent
Your Favours to his mortal Foe; 'tis true,
If so—my Councel were most hazardous:
But who, what Enemy can say of Cæsar,
That he provok'd him, by an Act of Honour?
How is he fam'd for Mercy to his Foes?
Then will he not forgive a friendly Error,
Whose Motive has th'Excuse of Gratitude?
But shou'd you offer Violence to Pompey,
How may great Cæsar take Advantage of
Your Crime, and build his Fame upon your Ruin?
Therefore my Thoughts advise you, Sir, be grateful,
Supply the Wants of Pompey, and protect him:
Appeal to Cæsar's Honour, and you gain him;
But Pompey's injur'd Life were such an Act,
As neither Gods would bear, nor Cæsar pardon.
Ptol.
Achoreus has our Thanks—your Thoughts,
Achillas.
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Achoreus, Sir, has spoke, as well becomes
His holy Function, and a faithful Subject:
But yet how far the Laws of Policy
May warrant what his Wisdom has advanc'd,
I own, with me, as yet, is undetermin'd.
Cæsar has Virtue, but he wants not Art:
And tho' no doubt he wishes Pompey dead,
Nay, in his Heart, wou'd bless the Hand that smote him;
Yet these are Thoughts his Glory must conceal.
Therefore who knows, but Pompey's Death reveng'd,
Might be the Mask his Joy wou'd chuse to wear?
If so, the Death of Pompey might undo us:
But when again we weigh it, as the End,
The Summit, and the Crown of Cæsar's Conquests:
When we reflect, that they who give Repose,
And full Security to Cæsar's Power,
Can never be themselves unsafe—then, Sir,
The Death of Pompey is the Life of Ægypt.
Ptol.
Your Sentiments, Septimius?
Sept.
Sir, my Sword
Speaks me, I am unfit for grave Debates;
A Roman born, my Science has been War:
My Services, by Pompey's Scorn o'erlook'd,
Have chang'd my thankless native Soil for Egypt,
Whose Interests now my Heart's last Blood shall serve.
If Ægypt then is lost, Septimius is an Exile;
And what can Ægypt save, but Cæsar's Friendship?
What gain that Friendship, but your Hate to Pompey?
What prove that Hatred real, but his Head?
Which trembling on a Spear, to Cæsar's View,
Crowns all his Toils, for, then, unrivall'd Empire.
Cæsar knows Men, and bears no lukewarm Friend;
With him, who stands suspected, is condemn'd:
Be cautious, Sir, he is not serv'd by halves!
As then Sincerity must gain his Heart;
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If your Ægyptian Resolution faints,
I have a Roman Arm, that wants Employment;
The Blame, or Merit of the Deed be mine;
And while 'tis mine alone, Fame shall confess,
Pompey, like Rome her self, cou'd only fall
By Romans.
Acho.
Isis and Osiris guard us!
Ptol.
Your Voice, Photinus, now concludes our Measures!
Shall Ægypt league with Pompey, or with Cæsar?
Pho.
I grant your Kingdom, Sir, to each indebted:
Pompey begs for Payment: Cæsar expects it.
If you fail Pompey, Pompey may reproach you.
If you slight Cæsar, Cæsar can revenge it.
Pompey's Relief demands your certain Ruin!
Cæsar's Ambition will expect his Head.
To talk of Obligations, Gratitude,
And Honour balanc'd, with a Nation's Safety,
Better befits the dreaming Sanctity
Of Anchorets, than Vigilance of Monarchs!
When Empires are at Stake, nothing is Just,
Or Great, but what implicitly maintains 'em.
Pompey is routed—and in Compliment
Invites us to partake his Ruin. Gods!
Because he sav'd us once, does he conclude
He therefore has a Right to our Destruction?
For now to aid him, 'gainst the Arms of Cæsar,
Were to renew the Giant's War with Heaven.
What Laws of Nations, Justice, or of Honour,
What Contracts, Leagues, or Treaties bind us down,
To prop this falling Pompey with our Bones,
To be by Cæsar crush'd, and trampled into Ashes?
No Sir, the Ruin Pompey brings, repel
Upon his Head! joyn you the Cause, the Gods
Have own'd, and turn your Sword on Cæsar's Foes!
One Blow secures his Friendship, and your Crown!
If not for Ægypt, strike for Ptolomey.
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Your royal Sister's Claim, her Provocations!
Her Arts! her female Spleen, and Beauty!
Dressing her Wrongs in Tears, and Cæsar amorous!
Her soft Complainings blowing him to Flames!
Will he refuse to right so fair a Suitress?
At least, Sir, give him not Pretence to inforce
Your Father's Will, or what were worse,
T'invest her solely with the sov'raign Power,
And veil his Vengeance, in an Act of Justice.
Ptol.
No more! that Thought embitters all Remorse.
Were Pompey dearer to my Heart than Life;
Rather than serve my Sister's haughty Pride,
My Rage, like Thunder, in the Port shou'd sink him.
Achillas, and Septimius, you obey
The Orders of Photinus—hark, your Ear!
[Whispering apart.
Acho.
Nay, then the horrid Resolution's fixt!
My farther Counsel will be useless here!
Hence then, to royal Cleopatra haste,
With Pompey's Fate alarm her nobler Soul,
And try what Terrors may be form'd, to save him.
[Aside.] Exit.
Pho.
Delay may give him Doubts of his Reception;
He may retreat, and hoist his Sails for Asia.
The present Hour's too precious to be lost;
In Execution of distressful Measures,
'Tis Expedition gives them Life and Lustre.
Ptol.
You then Achillas and Septimius haste,
Take to your Aid the Parties you have nam'd;
Rush on the Instant, to a deathless Fame,
And give Repose to Ægypt.
Sept.
And to Pompey.
[Exeunt Achil. and Sept.
Ptol.
The Resolution fix'd recalls my Spirit!
I am again my self! set free! I reign!
Conclude we then that Pompey is no more,
And that his Death buries my Sister's Claim:
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Her Right had stronger Hope from Pompey's Aid,
Whose Friendship to my Father was so firm,
He undertook, as Warden of his Will,
To place my Sister on the Throne, my Equal!
But now—
Pho.
Those Glories, with her Champion perish!
Whose Head secures you in the Heart of Cæsar.
Ptol.
But see my Sister; in her Look, Surprize,
And wild Emotion, eager to be heard.
Enter Cleopatra.
Cleo.
Sir, I'm inform'd, great Pompey is arriv'd,
And that your Council pauses to receive him.
Ptol.
Your Voice and Gesture, Madam, speak Reproach;
Which neither fits your State to give, or mine
To bear: Kings are accountable to none.
Cleo.
To more than Subjects, by the Laws of Honour:
Their Lustre stands on Eminencies fixt,
That the inferior World may gaze, and censure!
How vain is Glory, when it gives not Wonder!
How mean is Majesty, that dares be thankless?
Ptol.
Your Cares for Pompey, are at my Expence.
Your Bounty's great, from want of Power to give:
Were Ægypt yours, your Virtue wou'd have Bounds.
Cleo.
Were not your Virtue limited, my Power
And Right in Ægypt, wou'd to yours be equal.
I send, at least, to Pompey's Aid, my Wishes,
And that's a Merit, which your Greatness wants.
Why go you not in Person, to receive him?
Ptol.
I know my self, and know the State of Pompey.
Septimius and Achillas have their Orders.
Cleo.
Are those fit Agents for your Gratitude?
Owe you not your Crown to Pompey's Favour?
Ptol.
Be due, what may, to him; now Cæsar claims it.
Cleo.
Can you forget such godlike Benefits?
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Was Cæsar's Gold out-weigh'd by Pompey's Speeches?
Has Cæsar less Demands on Gratitude,
Because he can confirm the Crown he sav'd?
Cleo.
But hapless Pompey, not reliev'd, must perish!
Ptol.
And if reliev'd, you'll make my Peace with Cæsar!
Fair Sister, you may spare your Intercessions,
They're lost on one, that knows their Motive!
You live in Hope, that Pompey's Fortunes may
Retrieve your own; you think him bound t'enforce
My Father's Will, and therefore wish him Power;
This is the thin Disguise your Virtue wears!
Hence flows this Torrent of Benevolence!
But Madam, know, the Wiles of your Ambition,
With Pompey's Hopes, may perish in the Port!
Cleo.
Immortal Gods! and dare you own the Treason?
Ptol.
I glory in the Deed, that guards my Crown,
And levels your Presumption to Obedience.
Cleo.
Obedience to Superiors, must be due;
And who, in Ægypt, is the Queen's Superior?
The Force, and Fortune of injurious Arms,
'Tis true, have robb'd me of my Regal Power:
But my Soul's Empire is in me alone.
That soars above the Reach of Violence,
And from its Heighth, with Scorn regards your Triumph.
Ptol.
Be, then, that mighty Monarch of your Mind;
Rage on, and shew how ill you govern there,
While I content my self with ruling Ægypt.
Cleo.
First, Sir, redeem your self from Slavery!
From the pernicious Counsellors that sway you!
That, thro' the Heart of Pompey, strike at me:
That with false Politicks mis-lead your Youth,
To brand our Ægypt with eternal Infamy!
Pho.
Photinus, Madam, dares avow the Counsel.
Cleo.
I spoke, Sir, to the King; when I descend
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Ptol.
Pass it, my Friend; the Insult is to me.
Pho.
Therefore a Subject less might bear it, Sir.
Ptol.
I grant, her earlier Birth shou'd give Example;
But female Imperfections must be born.
She finds her Hopes of Empire lost with Pompey.
Cleo.
I scorn the Thought. If Interest were my View,
I shou'd not plead for Pompey, but for Cæsar!
Ptol.
Your secret Views, are to yourself best known.
To me they seem perplext, and intricate.
Cleo.
Since you provoke me then, receive a Secret,
That will, at once, confound your barbarous Counsels,
And make your Merit, in lost Pompey's Blood,
Hateful to Cæsar, as to Gods, and me.
Ptol.
Discharge this Thunder then; I stand prepar'd,
And ready for the Bolt.
Cleo.
Attend, and tremble.
When rude Rebellion seiz'd on royal Power,
And drove our exil'd Father from his Throne;
To Rome, as to his only Hope, (as now
Pompey to Ægypt flies) he fled for Succour:
And to incite the Senate's nobler Pity,
My self and you attended his Distresses.
Your Age was unsusceptible of Care,
But mine (or Flattery deceiv'd me well)
Bloom'd in full Beauty, and attracted Hearts:
Yet of my Conquests, I shall boast but one:
Cæsar pretended Love: I urg'd him to a Proof:
He gave the noblest: he restor'd our Ægypt.
Pompey was then his Friend; him Cæsar wrought,
At my Desire, to engage the Senate's Aid:
The Eloquence of Pompey had Success:
This generous Deed! (O dreadful, piteous Thought!)
Was the last Product of their fading Friendship.
But Cæsar stopt not there! the Senate's Aid
Was but a publick Act; his opening Heart
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And from the Bounty of that secret Flame,
We reap'd the Profit of suppress'd Rebellion.
My conscious Father, on this Truth reflecting,
Thought half at least was due, to her that sav'd
The whole, and therefore at his Death bequeath'd
Me equal Sway, Coheiress of his Throne:
While you, unknowing of his noble Motive,
Reproach his Memory with partial Care,
And make my Right, by Force of Arms, your Spoil.
Ptol.
How plausible soe'er this Tale may seem,
Yet Madam, in my Sense, it ill agrees
With Cæsar's Love, and your Concern for Pompey.
Cleo.
Of that, be Cæsar Judge. To you at least
It proves, that I prefer my Fame to Empire.
But since your Tutors, Sir, have humbler Views,
Pursue the Ruin I have warn'd you of.
Send your Assassins forth, on Cæsar's Foes,
And buy his Friendship with an Act of Horror!
While for the Pity I avow for Pompey,
On me, fall all the Bolts of Cæsar's Rage!
Boast you your Merit, and of me complain,
Then see, from what great Cæsar shall ordain,
Which most deserves, the King or Queen, to reign.
[Exit.
Ptol.
Was ever form'd so fierce, untam'd a Spirit?
Phot.
Confusion and Amazement seize my Sense!
It must be Fiction all! is she not Woman?
Her Spleen has forg'd this Secret: for if true,
How cou'd her Sex's Pride so long conceal it?
Ptol.
And yet—what Profit cou'd the Fiction yield?
Phot.
That answers all! it has Foundation!
'Tis well we've Time to arm against her Power.
Ptol.
Suppose the Fate of Pompey were deferr'd?
Phot.
If that were Merit, it will now be hers!
Nor cou'd your Crown be sure, from her Reward!
Ambition is the only Power, that combats Love.
And since, howe'er we are dazzled with his Virtue,
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With Pompey's Head, we must supplant her Beauty
Ptol.
It must—Necessity will have it so!
Or Pompey, now, or Ægypt is no more:
My Kingdom, like a Bark distress'd at Sea,
Must, in the common Danger, know no Right,
Value, or Property, in cumbrous Treasure.
But when the Freight destroy'd a People saves,
We undistinguish'd plunge it in the Waves.
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